Among the Valar
by Camel in the Arctic
Summary: Just a bit of fun, almost on the same lines as Sauron in the Void, just a bit...tamer...lol, the Valar, mighty spirits, are just chilling in their immortal homes....


**1 - Meetings**

The noise fro the table died down as a shining white light filled the room; the Valar of Arda looked up from their plates and goblets as the incandescent figures of Manwë and his queen, Varda descended from an ante-chamber into the main dining hall where the rest of the Aratar were eating. Manwë looked around at them with his piercing blue eyes: "I, Manwë Súlimo," he started in a very kingly voice, "Loyal son to Eru, loyal guardian of His Divine working, Protector and Lord of his Creation, the Elder King, the High King of Arda, the King of Arda, the Lord of the Breath of Arda, the Lord of the West, the Lord of all Wind – "

The mighty Valar broke off and raised an eyebrow; to his left Aulë and Oromë were sniggering uncontrollably into their goblets.

Manwë sighed exasperatedly: "What?" he asked, his regal tone all but vanished, "What is it _now_?"

Aulë looked up with a mischievous gleam in his bright eyes and grinned, "Lord of _all_ Wind?" he chuckled,

"Yes," Manwë replied slowly and cautiously, Oromë managed to disguise his laugh into a hacking cough.

"Lord of _ALL _Wind?" Aulë asked again, grinning at his king.

"Yes! That's what I said!"

"Are you certain?" enquired the smith lightly, trying his hardest to keep a straight face.

"Yes! Yes! I am Lord of all Wind! What is so –" he stopped and looked around the assembled Ainur, they were all laughing at him by now – even Varda was smiling with amusement – his shining shoulders drooped, "Yes, yes. Very good – very droll Aulë…" his sharp, stately voice returned coldly, "But I have not summoned thee here to make jokes about one's flatulence –" he stopped again, all of them now were roaring with laughter, he gave up and sat down.

Varda, next to him, laid a gentle hand on his arm and smiled up at him, "Don't worry, dear – they'll calm down in a little while,"

Manwë scowled around the table at his subjects, "They're laughing at me!" he whined,

Varda kissed him on the cheek and laughed sweetly, "Laugh with them, my dear,"

The doors of Ilmarin suddenly burst open and a cold air blew in; in the wide doorway a deep shadow was framed, there was a convenient crack of thunder from outside.

The laughter stopped abruptly.

"Námo," Manwë called from his throne, "Don't stand in the light, we can't see you, properly!"

The shadow called Námo moved forward out of the light and looked gravely at the high king, "Apologies Manwë – the visions of Doom do not work on timetables," he droned.

Manwë sighed: it was going to be one of _those _days…"Yes; yes all right, never mind…are we all finished now?" he added, scowling around at the others until his sapphire gaze lay to rest on Aulë.

The Smith spotted him and waved.

There was a dignified murmur as the rest of the Valar composed themselves again.

"Very well. Now then, to business. We have to bring to light – what!"

Tulkas had slowly raised his huge hand. Manwë glared at him.

The big wrestler mumbled something into his golden beard.

"Speak up." Manwë said with a fixed gentle voice – Tulkas was big and strong with muscles that could have been separate entities on their own, but it seemed that they had taken up a lot of room that was meant to be saved for the brain.

"More drink?" the golden haired giant, who had become immensely interested in his big, flat feet, asked sheepishly.

Manwë cast a shaking hand over his blue eyes and muttered something unsavory under his breath, he waved a hand and a large pitcher of wine appeared in front of the blushing Tulkas.

The king of Arda looked up again and with a slightly manic grin asked: "Anything else for anybody? No? Good!"

There was a snore.

A vein in Manwë's shining forehead pumped dangerously as all heads turned to the snorer.

Ulmo gently tapped the snoozing Valar on the head, to little affect. He looked at Manwë apologetically and shook his long fluid hair.

Manwë's azure eye began to twitch in time with his throbbing vein.

The snoring Valar, Irmo, opened his eyes when he got the unnerving feeling that an entire room of shining eyes was watching him.

He spotted the twitching, throbbing High King and chuckled nervously, "They don't call me the Dreamer for nothing, you know," he mumbled.

Aulë began to snigger again, he muttered something to Oromë and the hunter began to laugh too.

Manwë sat down again.

He did not look amused.

Varda looked at her king and smiled sadly; she shook her long midnight hair and stood up serenely. Silence suddenly befell the room and all shining eyes were downcast as the Valar listened to what the Star Queen had to say.

Manwë looked at them, there was nodding and muted agreement – his eyes narrowed dangerously: This was how they wanted to play it then? They would pay…

He caught Aulë's eye, the great Smith winked playfully at him, Manwë smiled back. It was not an amused smile, it was a smile that circled drowning people and had a fin on top. They would _pay_…

Varda sat back down again as she finished Manwë's notes, she looked at her king slightly smugly. Manwë smiled thankfully back at her, a gleam in his eye.

She sighed, she knew that gleam.

It was not a good gleam.

The Valar had begun to pack away their things and some, the first being the mischievous Aulë, had stood up, ready to leave…

They wouldn't know what hit them, thought Manwë happily.

The shining king leapt up suddenly, all eyes turned to him. He grinned manically, "Wait! Wait my siblings! You cannot go just yet!"

Everyone looked at him with a worried smile fixed onto their faces.

"We have not heard Námo's premonition for today," Manwë looked at the only Aratar to have remained seated, Námo. No one's eyes left the face of their king. He did not look like he was jesting…

"Sit down then;" Manwë said, trying his hardest to conceal a grin, "Námo – it's all yours."

The Doomsman stood up slowly as the other Valar sat down again, their eyes still on Manwë's smug face. He _knew_ that Námo would now drone on and on for hours – maybe even days.

Manwë sat down as well as Námo began in his flat, boring voice. The high king smiled happily to himself as he looked round at his family who were already slumping in their chairs as they slowly fell into a deep state of tedium. That would teach them!

Varda leant into him and chuckled softly, "That _wasn't _fair," she whispered.

Manwë smiled again and kissed her soft hair but said nothing; his gaze was sweeping the room. Aulë caught his eye, grinned and mouthed:

"Well played".

**2 - Archery**

The arrow thudded into the bull's-eye of the target and went: _twang_. The golden haired elf, tresses glimmering in the bright sun, lowered his bow and grinned smugly.

"I win, my lord,"

Oromë the Hunter squinted down the range at the target, all three of the elf's arrows had hit the middle of the target perfectly; but his own were dotted around the outer rings.

Oromë swore.

The elf laughed richly and asked: "Another round perhaps?"

"I let you win," the Hunter muttered as he walked down the range alongside the elf; he plucked his arrows out of the straw.

"My thanks, my lord," drawled the elf, whose name was Callo, sarcastically as he pulled his own arrows out of the target.

The elf and the Vala walked back up the range side by side, back to the firing line.

Callo stepped aside to let the Hunter fire first, but Oromë waved a hand, "No, no – you can go first, Vanya." He smiled widely at the elf as Callo shrugged and drew back the bowstring, his eyes concentrating unblinkingly on the target.

Oromë had a sudden, very un-Valar like, coughing fit as the arrow left the string with a silky noise; both the elf and the, now fully recovered, Vala watched the arrow fly.

It had wavered as it had left the bow but now it curved gracefully in the air and struck the bull's-eye with a soft thud.

Callo laughed happily.

Oromë swore.

"Your turn, my lord," said the elf turning to the Hunter complacently.

Oromë's eyes narrowed as he stalked past the elf to the firing line, he drew back his own bowstring until the elegant wood creaked.

He waited.

He thought he heard the elf behind him mutter something.

He released the arrow with a grunt, it flew straight and very, very fast…

A squawking and unusually suicidal pheasant suddenly leapt up from the grass and into the path of the arrow.

There was an explosion of feathers…

For a moment there was silence as the feathers settled on the grass…then:

"How very odd…"

Oromë turned on the elf, his brown eyes twitching, "You _asked _it to!" he managed.

Callo looked hurt, "Me?" he asked innocently

"Yes!"

"My lord, are you blaming _me_ for _that_?"

"Yes!"

"It was a pheasant, my lord!"

"You damn well asked it to! Pheasants don't normally jump into the way of speeding arrows!"

Callo inspected his perfect nails, "Pheasants are notoriously stupid, my lord," he shrugged.

Oromë swore.

Callo stood up to the line again, he cast a suspicious look back to the Vala but Oromë was apparently interested in his own bow. The elf aimed and was about to release when he has knocked heavily from behind, he stumbled and the arrow left at some velocity in the wrong direction, it flew into a group of trees and then there was another squawk; a couple of feathers drifted out from the boughs…

All the pheasants in the area made a collective decision and decided it would be in their better interests if they left.

"Oh dear…" chuckled Oromë, still inspecting his bow.

Callo looked aghast, "You _cheated_!" he gasped.

"No I didn't,"

"You did!"

"You stumbled, I saw it all,"

Callo clenched his slender fists and spluttered.

Oromë grinned at him and sauntered past, "My turn,"

The Vala pulled back his bowstring and looked over his shoulder at the elf, Callo smiled at him.

Oromë aimed carefully.

Callo began to sing in his rich elven voice.

Oromë tried to concentrate, the song was extremely distracting. He lowered his bow and looked at the elf, "Will you _stop_ that!" he snarled.

Callo beamed at him and sung louder.

Oromë raised a hand to make a rude gesture, there was a twang.

Silence…

Both pairs of eyes looked down at the arrow sticking out of Oromë's foot.

Callo grimaced as he watched a holy vein begin to throb, "I bet that hurt, my lord,"

Oromë waved a hand and the arrow vanished.

Callo smiled, "_My_ turn,"

Callo lined himself up and looked back at the Vala, Oromë was massaging his foot. Callo decided it was safe. He fired quickly and the arrow left straight, he turned back to Oromë before he even saw it hit, "I win," he grinned.

The Vala returned the grin but it did not reach his twitching brown eyes and shook his head; Callo, puzzled turned back to the target, it had only one arrow in it, the one he had just fired was sticking out of the grass a foot behind it.

"You missed!" laughed the Hunter.

Callo scrutinized the target…it looked like it was slightly more to the left…he turned back to the Vala and opened his mouth to complain, but Oromë waved his hand and the elf fell silent, his beautiful voice muted.

Oromë smiled at the elf's fury and turned to fire, it was going to be _perfect_…

"Oromë! There you are!"

The arrow spun off into the trees and thudded loudly – and safely – into a trunk, there was an almost audible sigh of relief from the pheasants; Oromë sunk to his knees…

His friend, Aulë was approaching, the big smith was grinning widely, his ruddy face covered in soot from his forge.

"Aulë!" cried Oromë in fury.

Callo regained his voice and laughed richly again, "I win, my lord…again," he added triumphantly. Then he turned to Aulë and bowed deeply, "My lord,"

Aulë grinned at him, "Hullo Callo, did you win again?"

Callo grinned and nodded, he turned to the kneeling Vala, "I think our friend is taking it badly, however…"

Shimmering tears were streaming down the Hunter's face.

Callo turned back to the bemused Aulë, "Would you care for a shot, my lord?" he offered his bow to the Smith.

Oromë looked up with an evil grin, Aulë looked reluctant, "I'm no…bowman," he muttered awkwardly, looking down at his sooty boots.

Oromë stood up, "Go on, my friend," he said with a gleam in his eye, "Have a go…"

Aulë took the bow hesitantly from the politely waiting elf and held it in finger and thumb.

"Erm…" he said.

Oromë winked slightly at Callo: this was going to be _priceless_!

"Now I'm no expert…" Aulë said, his brow furrowed; he pulled back the string, very aware that he was being watched closely by Oromë and Callo who both had very large grins on their fair faces.

Aulë grunted and loosed the arrow.

Several things happened so fast that they will have to be recounted in slow-motion prose. Probably the first thing was the bow string slapping into the Aulë's unprotected inner-wrist, causing the smith to scream and drop the bow. This sent the arrow off on an irregular course and it flew towards the trees and a screaming retreat of game fowl; it hit, ricocheted and against all probability came back towards the three immortals at a dangerously increased speed.

They ducked.

Oromë looked up and burst into laughter; Aulë was sat nursing his wrist, his face – at least, the parts visible under the soot – was bright red. Callo began to laugh too.

The Smith stood up dignifiedly and with an embarrassed grin to the two howling archers, hurried off.

After a while Oromë and Callo stopped laughing, their jaws and ribs aching. They stood up using each other as support.

"I _knew_ that'd be good!" chuckled Oromë happily picking up his own bow again.

Callo gripped his shoulder and laughed again in his fine voice. He stooped and picked up his bow…"Another round perhaps?" he asked lightly looking up at his lord.

**3 – A Bad Day**

Námo closed the book before him with a very ominous thud…the book _itself_ looked ominous – it, however, did not have any silly skulls carved into it, nor any spiky runes or frighteningly familiar stains that are normally standard with ominous books, but it – nonetheless – had a look about it which clearly said: "Open at your own risk"…

In actual fact no one _but_ Námo ever opened it. It was his book of Doom. It contained the fate of every living thing on Arda within it.

It was quite a read.

Námo drummed a dull tune on the 'Doom-book' and sighed. He knew it. It was going to be a very hard day.

With the gift of foresight one would assume that if you knew it was going to be a hard day you could just stay in bed and let the troubles wash by. Unfortunately Fate likes to see things run smoothly.

And besides, Námo didn't have a bed.

Slowly the Doomsman replaced the book onto its big iron lectern and fastened the lock that secured it in place. No one had ever actually tried to steal it but it did give it an extra…ominous quality. Námo turned the heavy key in the lock; it had amused Aulë anyway.

Námo lurched from his dark chambers, he had found that lurching best suited his character and he had perfected it beautifully: dropping the right knee just a fraction too much as he bought the foot down so he had an almost rocking motion going on. He was a lurching kind of fellow.

Out of all the Valar Námo got out the least.

He lurched into the halls. The halls of Mandos were extensive, they reached for thousands of miles – which when you think of what their main purpose is you realize that even that is too much – no one, not even Námo himself, knew how far they actually went or how many spirits resided there.

When the world was young Námo could name each person that resided within his halls but now there were too many, countless numbers roamed through the Halls of Waiting.

It sometimes could get very noisy.

Today it was quite peaceful; the spirit-elves of the deceased were sitting doing peaceful things that were more or less expected of the dead…but no one here but Námo looked on it as being dead; they laughed, they played games, sung in their annoyingly fair voices and generally had a good time with other dead people.

It sometimes got on Námo's nerves; he hadn't installed the silence signs for nothing.

Námo found his usual seat by the fountain and waited for it to happen.

All the elves walked around him, they never talked to him after they first arrived; it was quite a lonely existence being the Doomsman of the world, but, you know what they say: 'It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it,'

Námo had been doing it for millennia without a single holiday. It was quite a haul sometimes.

There was a long, low horn blow from outside which signified the coming of the new spirits for today. Námo stood up, took a deep breath and went to meet them at the main doors.

It looked more like an army than a group of eternal visitors; there were thousands of elves waiting nervously on the black courtyard outside the ominous black gates.

Manwë had, several times, requested that the place should be made a more cheerful colour; at one time it had been a bright yellow, but that only resulted in a lot of dead people looking around in confusion and asking if they were in the right place.

The crowd waited as the doors opened slowly with an ominous grinding sound; suddenly there was bright light pouring out onto them making them hide their eyes and framed in the doorway was the Doomsman.

Námo lurched forward and onto a little podium he had erected, he cleared his throat slowly and looked around.

"Welcome to the Halls of Mandos!" he droned loudly, "Here thee shalt reside 'till the dying of the World; thee hast lived live once already now thee shalt live in death. Ere the end the mighty Eru will come for your spirits and take them to his next Plan." He ended on a flat note and looked around the crowd again.

"Ere thou enter this place of eternal waiting thou must hear the Rules."

It had been something Námo had decided on from the very beginning, if a place didn't have rules it was just a riot waiting to happen.

"Rule Number One:" he said, "Thou shall never leave 'till Eru summons thee."

He paused.

"Rule Number Two: Thou art free to roam these halls in their entirety – except any of those rooms which are verily marked: "Personnel Only"."

Námo spotted a solitary hand rise in the middle of the throng and sighed, It was about to become a _very _hard day…

"Rule Number Three:" he continued ignoring the hand, "There shall be no drinks in the Waiting halls, please take your beverages to the designated areas…"

The hand began to wave and the assembled spirits turned to look at the waver.

"I have a problem" the waver said, his voice wavering with worry.

"Speak up, immortal spirit," sighed Námo, knowing what was coming next.

"I'm not dead."

_There _it was…

It was going to be a hard day…


End file.
